I Never Miss
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: Bullseye accepts a job to kill the Kingpen. Told through his eyes. Short multi-chapter.
1. Boardroom

**WARNING: This story has dark humor. It's told from Bullseye's eyes, so of course, it's kind of cruel and sarcastic. I had a lot of fun making him as mean as possible, and I believe it shows.**

**A/N: Girlwithoutfear just sent me her notes, so hopefully it's a little better. Momentous occasion, by the way. First time there's been less than five edits on a chapter! **

**Dedicated to PikkiPiru, you thrust this idea into my head with your review of KILL DU JOUR.**

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I Never Miss:

Chapter One: Boardroom

The boardroom is dimly lit. For once the movies about the plotting, rich, fat men are right. They really do their planning in the dark. I use this to my advantage. They don't even notice me arrive, and that's the way it should be. No one sees me unless I want to be seen.

One of the moneybags makes a comment that is beyond the normal stupidity of the group. I hate these people. They are afraid. They are weak. I must help them. For a price, of course.

"How much?" I say, making the idiots wince. The sight of their momentary fear makes my heart glow.

"Nine mill," the amateur replies. Nine million? What are they thinking? I don't make single digits.

I widen my sneer and watch the effect of its reflection around the table. "I don't think so."

"How much would you say?"

They're learning. I relax my face and look at my chain of paperclips. It's getting long – I haven't used one for a while. I can practically hear the adrenaline pumping through the men's veins. I wait for a few seconds before responding. Let them sweat for a while.

"Double it."

"Done."

The decision is fast. One point to the moneybags. At least they don't waste too much of my time.

One of them holds out their hand. I ignore it. I don't make deals. I'm an honest man.

The man seems to understand what he's done wrong after a few, very long seconds. What idiots. I make sure to shoot him one of my patented sneers. They always help to lighten the mood.

"Well, gentlemen, it's been nice," I say. I let my eyes wander across the dim table, enjoying their obvious terror at my cordiality. Why, I can't be sure.

I exit the room with a flare. If there's one thing my father taught me before I killed him, it's how to make your disappearance seen.


	2. Shop

**A/N: Another way to duck homework. Works like a charm! Just corrected by girlwithoutfear. **

**Warning: Contains murder.**

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Chapter Two: Shop

I love the streets at night, especially New York's. They are loud. They ring with gunshots, drunken brawls, and the distant echo of sirens. The sounds bring back wonderful memories.

The smells are even better. The streets smell of poverty and despair. It's what I live for.

In fact, there's only one thing wrong with the streets. I can sum it up in one word: Daredevil.

But tonight is not the night to dwell on such things. I have a job to do, and I always finish what I start.

I ignore the alcoholic bum staring at my long, leather jacket with greed in his eyes. Such affairs don't interest me. I need to get some things for my newest assignment. Office supplies are good for the little things, but Wilson Fisk deserves something… something special.

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The stupid bell marks my entrance into the dusty, cramped shop. I hide my displeasure behind another flawless sneer, but the wrinkled shopkeeper doesn't react the way he should.

"May I help you?" he asks in a squeaky voice that makes my head spike sharply. I ignore him.

My nose involuntarily curls when it comes in contact with the unpleasant odor of crushed rosemary and sage. The shopkeeper seems to recognize my reaction because he laughs. The sound makes my blood run cold. No one laughs at me.

"For the tourists," he explains. "Like a bit of hocus-pocus."

I turn to look at him. I know my eyes are cold, I've practiced enough in front of the mirror to tell, but the idiot man doesn't seem afraid. He should be.

The man is getting on my nerves. I think it's time for me to put him to use. "Where are the shuriken?"

The shopkeeper looks thoughtful. "They are hard to use. I suggest a nice knife."

That's it. My anger is bubbling, I can feel it rocking against my skin, trying to come out. I can't let it. It's not professional. I smile thinly at him and say, "Show me."

He leads me to a large, glass case covered in a thin layer of throat-tightening dust. An image of my idiot mother running her fingers across the surface and ticking her tongue flashes unwanted through my head. God I hated that woman.

"Best in the house," the shopkeeper is saying. He opens the case with a small brass key. The ridiculousness of locking away knives is not lost on me. Apparently it is on him.

He holds out a long bowie knife like a judge in a county fair. It is a brutish weapon that holds no elegance. What a waste of good wood.

I take it from his outstretched hands.

"Heavy," I comment. The cold blade is sharp against my fingertips.

"It's German. Only the best." The man looks so proud of his wares. How narrow-minded.

"Yes." I twirl the knife around my fingers. Suddenly I thrust the blade into the man's rather hefty gut. "Unfortunately, I'm not looking for a knife."

He crumples around the hilt sticking out of his abdomen, a look of pure shock decorating his ugly face. I smile at him. He never saw that coming. Who's good?

"Shuriken, shuriken," I mumble, running my fingers along the long shelves of useless items. "Ah, shuriken."

I pick up a wonderful specimen and hold it out to the dying man on the floor. "How much?"

He doesn't respond. I guess he's too busy dying. What a pity.

"I'll take a dozen."

I gather the throwing stars and start to make my way out of the deserted shop. I stop at the counter and pull out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and drop it next to the bulky till. "Keep the change."

Ah, New York at night. Beautiful.

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A/N: I don't think anyone noticed, but I changed the rating from M to T after a debate. I decided the graphics are no worse than the comic books, right? Anyone younger than 13, just be aware that this is a Bullseye first-person. **


	3. Bar

Chapter Three: Bar

The old shopkeeper's attitude left a nasty flavor in my mouth. I alter my course, heading for the run-down bar in the middle of my favorite section of New York City.

Thick clouds of cigarette smoke and heavy alcohol greet me at the door. I bat away the smoke. If my subtle PSA is noticed, it's not followed. Then again, what do I care if all the brutes in Hell's Kitchen die of smoke inhalation or – God-forbid – lung cancer?

The drunks understand who I am. They stare openly at my costume of leather and metal. The noise level drops considerably but the incessant thumping of the jukebox in the corner still hammers against my skull.

It takes me sitting down at the bar for the conversations to start up again.

"Hey maaaaan." An idiot so drunk he barely stumbles over has the nerve to actually sit down on the stool next to me.

I shoot him a glare that has killed more men than the Nazis. He is either too drunk to notice or too stupid to care. Maybe both.

The whole bar goes quiet. Even the terrible music pouring out of the speakers has gone. I can practically hear the tension in the dead silence.

"Hey maann, what's with your face?" The guy clearly hasn't noticed the sudden and complete silence. Or the hundred eyes boring holes in his body, my included. How insulting.

My whole body tenses as he slaps his hand on my shoulder. Or tries to. His depth perception, or lack-thereof, prevents him from landing a good grip. I feel rather than see every single person in the bar step back and hold his or her breath. It would have been comical, if there weren't someone touching me. Or if I were a different person. Or an utter imbecile.

The drunkard doesn't pick up the none-too-subtle hints to run to the nearest bed and hide under it. His hand is still on my shoulder when he adds, "It's not cool, Dude. What is it?"

His alcohol-widened pupils are focused on my forehead. He must be staring at my brand. It's the perfect example of my excellent taste.

He mumbles something before saying, "Ain't yah just asking for a snip'r bullet?"

The silent bar goes even quieter, if it's even possible. No one moves a muscle. The man keels over onto the bar, his pea brain swimming in beer.

I spend a second staring at the completely wasted man. When I turn around, everyone's gaze has attached to me. As soon as they realize I've noticed, they pretend like they haven't been watching for a reaction.

The drunkard's hand falls off my shoulder, nearly hitting my crotch. He's lucky.

The room is still mute. I guess they are waiting for my move. Can't disappoint, now can I?

"Perfect Rob Roy. Straight up with a twist," I say to the barmaid, as if I don't notice everyone's stares.

The rookie barmaid jumps when I address her. "That's the one with—"

I glare at her. She actually has the nerve to speak to me? She stops talking mid-sentence. I dare her to screw up my drink wordlessly.

The bar starts acting more alive when my drink arrives. The music starts blaring again. I am _this _close to shooting a fork down the damn machine's buttons.

I finish my drink and stand slowly. Once again, the bar hushes. It's getting a little old.

Thirty feet away and nearly to the door, I stop and turn back as if I've forgotten something and look at the now snoring and totally plastered idiot. Without a word, I pull one of the darts out of the target hanging on the wall.

The neck is a sturdy thing, but there is one spot. It's hard to get to, if you don't know where you're going. Too low and you hit a vertebrae; hurts like hell, but doesn't kill. Too high and you hit the skull. But just right, you hit the jackpot. It kills.

I don't even need to concentrate. The dart hits the spot with deadly accuracy. No pun intended.

I wait one beat before turning to the barmaid. She is completely terrified and flinches horribly. I let my face slacken just enough to look scarier than the grim reaper.

It works. I bet she's shitting in her pants right about now.

"Next time use more dry vermouth."

I leave the bar before the fear evaporates and it can come back to life.

Jeez! I'm good.

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**A/N: I just wanted to thank Clocks. You are my most loyal reader. **


	4. Alley

**A/N: I only had a limited time to post this, so it hasn't been reviewed by girlwithoutfear. It's better to have something, right? Sorry for the delay, I haven't had a computer for a while (still don't, borrowing my sister's). **

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Chapter Four: Ally

He had already appeared in front of me before I realized he was even in my general area. He is quiet. It is as much as we have in common.

"Bullseye."

So he remembers my name. Or does he just know how to use his eyes? The bullseye branded on my head kind of gives it away.

"Daredevil." I hide my shock in his sudden appearance behind the smile I reserve for him and him alone. It is a very nice smile.

He starts to circle me slowly. It's like he's a vulture coming in to gnaw on my corpse.

"Doesn't it get old?" he asks.

I go for the clichéd calm and look at my fingernails. "You'll have to be more specific." My voice is surprisingly even considering my heart is still pumping a gallon a minute.

"Killing." The tight-loving hero stops between the wall and me ten feet away. It's a good tactical spot. Damn.

I shrug. "Does it?"

"I don't kill."

Wow. I knew the devil had balls, but who knew he could play pool?

"That's right, you save people. At least when I kill once, the job's done."

I feel the inside of my jacket and my fingers graze some old post-it. I have to think to remember where it came from; I don't. But I wonder if it's possible to kill a man with post-its. Probably, if I jam it far enough down a throat. Too much bother. Just then I realize I'm having an ADD moment and again I listen to the man in front of me.

"So?"

I can tell from his voice he's giving me the opportunity to explain. Good.

"Well, surely you get tired of saving people. You save the world and the next day you have to do it again."

Red is clearly out of a good response. He changes the subject. "Why Fisk?"

I blink. I know I shouldn't be surprised that he knows about the job, but I still am. Ah well, it doesn't make much difference now. "Why not? The money's good."

He sits down. Strange. Didn't see that coming. I contemplate doing the same but then my smarter half reminds me who _he _is. I remain standing. I'm not the weak one here.

"But you don't care about that."

"And what do I?" I hope my voice sounds as sure as it should be.

He stands up smoothly, seeing he's gotten my attention. "You crave the excitement."

What would my grandmother think if she knew this puny excuse for a man could read me like this? She'd probably whack me across the head before fainting dead away.

My fingers twitch against my paperclips. They seem to be asking me why I haven't killed the hero yet. I have no good response. I decide it's better to answer the real problem at hand.

"How would you know, Devil?" I pause for a moment of dramatic appeal. "Is it because it's the same for you? Does the savior of Hell's Kitchen really only care about the excitement and fame?"

Ah, I've cracked something. He doesn't say anything for a few moments. He is either dead or rattled. Hopefully it's the former, but who knows? My luck hasn't been too good this month. Probably shouldn't have killed the brunette with the mirror…

"I have my reasons."

Yeah, my luck sucks. Better stop while I'm ahead. But he's breaking the silence.

"Don't do it."

I think the air just blew out of my lungs. His voice is almost pleading. Who saw that coming?

"Do what?" I ask. But I know what he's talking about. He's practically begging me not to kill the Kingpin.

He doesn't look at me. "You know."

I notice my smile has slipped in my surprise. I redo it, adding a dash of condescension and just a hint of malicious. It's an old recipe for enemies my mother taught me. It works like voodoo.

Then I pause. I am dead serious when I ask, "Why?"

He doesn't respond.

I go in for the kill. "Do you really want to stop me?"

There is no response.

I drop the paperclip chain I didn't even know I was playing with as if to say "you're not worth it." Maybe it worked, maybe not. "Look, DD, nice to chat, but like you said, I've got a job."

Daredevil's head follows me as I turn to walk nonchalantly down the musty alley. He freaks me out, no sense deigning it. There's something _wrong _with him. I wish I knew what, but as it is, it's damn scary.

Maybe the fear is reciprocated? Like snakes? Yeah, he's more afraid of me than I am of him. Not hard to be.

My paperclips slap against my leg, punishing me for not killing him while I had the chance.

"Another day," I whisper in response. "He'll die another day."

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**A/N: There are two film references buried in this chapter, can you find them? And PikkiPiru? Does this clear the first chapter up a bit for you? Oh, and this the chapter that prompted my sister's one-shot, FEMME AND BUTCH. **


	5. Sidewalk

**A/N: Not yet edited but it's been a very long time and it's time. This is it: the last chapter. **

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Chapter Five: Sidewalk

I've broken into Fisk's office before. It no longer holds any challenge. Daredevil was right in one respect: I do crave the excitement more than anything. But the skyscraper holds none of it. I'll wait until he comes out.

I do not lurk. To hide in the shadows is to except weakness. And I am not weak. I sit on the gum-splattered bench across the street from the giant, glass doors that glare daringly at anyone reckless enough to challenge their authority.

The streets are starting to slow down, but the city is still rumbling. I feel the subway churning away and the people around me keep their heads down as if they know what's about to happen.

Fisk is a smart man. He rarely leaves his polished building. But I know his weakness. He likes the darkness. He will come. All I need do is wait. And I am a patient man.

I stare out at my city. The smoggy wind echoes between the twisting allies carrying all my favorite sounds with it. Far in the distance, I hear a car alarm blaring. I close my eyes and let all the joys of my home play around me.

I wait in my welcoming darkness for hours. Fisk must be waiting for the streets to clear, at least as much as they ever would in the city that never sleeps.

The doors open like the gate of Muldor in the last Lord of the Rings movie, slowly and with expectations. It's a little dramatic for my taste, but then again, Fisk's not me and therefore without my excellent opinions.

I watch as his long train of attachés follows the huge man. They look like baby ducks following their big, feathery mother.

While I'm watching, I let my swift fingers drift toward my belt-clasp, where the shuriken I bought reside. The cold touch of shiny steel makes me smile; I always forget how much I enjoy this.

This time I do aim. I only have one chance, but I'm not worried, I only ever need one. I never miss.

Fisk is almost to his stretch limo and I am about to let it fly when a flash of red appears at the corner of my eye.

My hand freezes.

There is a moment in everyone's life when time stops. Some people say it's when you see your true love, others it's just before you die. But I can tell you it's not either of those. It's when you first feel complete and utter terror.

I'm not talking about the fear you have for spiders or the dark. I mean the terror that leaches into your every bone. The feeling of empty lead and burning from the inside out. I'm talking the feeling that makes the world mute. The terror I'm feeling right now.

I can't breath. My heart has stopped along with the world. One thought punctuates the haze of terror: I can't do it.

Then suddenly the world is playing again, but this time the seconds are split in half. The Kingpin is almost in his armored limo. I have to release the star now if I'm going to do it at all.

I let it fly. Once again, time ceases to be. I watch the elegant weapon tear through the air in a graceful arch and watch it embed itself into the car's interior.

I missed.

My body won't move. Fisk has probably seen me, but even if he hasn't, the shuriken is a dead giveaway. But that doesn't matter now. I need to see him. I need to see the man who made me miss.

But I know I won't find him tonight. No, he's too good for that. I clasp my cold paperclip chain for warmth and comfort, but it gives me none. I have missed. They show me no pity.

"The devil will get his reward," I promise my shining weapons. "One day, I'll met him again and then I _won't_ miss."


End file.
